I started my garden at the same time I started my family. They both grew and matured and flourished and suffered in parallel fashion.  

In both cases, I set out to 'raise them in the way they should go'...though  admittedly, in both cases, most of the time, I had no idea what that really was.

Still, over time, I learned to walk the fine line of both parenting and gardening.  I remember thinking and observing while I was working in the garden...weeding and planting...then replanting...puttering and pondering and savoring...

 the magic and mystery of my garden,

 that I knew the lines and arcs and outlines of my garden as 


and as well as I knew the curves and contours and marks of my growing boys' bodies. The broad back of my younger son; the full lips and square jaw of my first born.

But now they are grown and my garden is it struggles to adapt to climate change, extreme weather, dwindling resources. 

Things I could once do to comfort and support my children no longer seem to be as effective...or welcome.

Vines and flowers that once grew in my garden with relative ease and contentment now no longer do so despite my best efforts.

My only defense: change and morph right along with them I guess. Change is the only constant after all.

It's just getting over that old resistance thing, if you know what I mean.

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